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wesratcliffe · 7 years

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stage 1: denial || self para

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

tw; injury, death, drugs, mental health, depression, suicidal thoughts

Soft, gray morning light streamed through the curtains of their hotel room in Copenhagen. It was early, far earlier than he needed to be awake. However, the multiple time zones they’d been in and out of over the last month had messed up their internal clocks. Wesley was wide awake, but the steady breathing he heard in his ear told him that she was probably asleep. Deciding to get an early start to his day, he tried to slowly remove himself from her embrace. Delicate arms tightened around him, trying to stop him from leaving the warmth of their bed.

“Where’re you going?” Michele mumbled, blinking up at him blearily.

Wesley chuckled, smiling fondly down at her. “I’ve got my meeting in two hours, I thought I’d get an early start to prepare.”

Michele’s arms tightened around him and she stuck her lip out, pouting drowsily. “Do you have to?” she whined. “You were preparing all night.”

It’s true, while he had brought Michele with him on his trip, it had mostly been focused on the business he was attempting to start. He tried to give them as many evenings as possible, but some of them simply got eaten up by his meetings and extensive planning. She was right, he had been preparing extensively. Surely resting in bed for a few hours couldn’t hurt. However, he was nothing if not difficult.

With a smirk, he acted as though he was moving to remove Michele’s arms. “I don’t know, love...”

Michele smiled fondly with a roll of her eyes, immediately able to tell he was joking. “Please?” she asked, pulling him closer.

His heart constricted in his chest, spilling over with love. He didn’t think it was possible, to feel so intensely for a person. He’d watched the occasional romance movie, read the occasional book, but it had always seemed insincere and over-exaggerated. There was nothing insincere about the all-consuming adoration he felt for Michele Ibis. He practically melted against her, climbing back under the blankets. “Well, since you asked so nicely...” he murmured, rolling them over so that she was lying comfortably on top of him. “I won’t go just yet.”

Michele leaned forward until their foreheads touched, noses brushing playfully. “Promise?”

Wesley smoothed his hands down her bare arms. He was sure that he must be smiling like a lovestruck idiot, but he simply couldn’t help it. “Promise...” he murmured. He let his eyes slip closed, awaiting the soft, familiar touch of her lips. Instead, he felt the jarring sensation that he was falling. His eyes flew open wide, heart hammering in his chest — not in love, but in fear. He could still see Michele above him, but she was growing steadily distant the further and further he fell. He reached out for her, for something to grab onto, but he was only met with empty darkness. Her beautiful face was nothing but a speck in the distance now, and he cried out desperately for her–

Wesley woke with a start, gasping for breath and clutching at the sheets of his hospital bed. He wasn’t in the hotel in Copenhagen. He was in Buena Vista, in Doc McStuffins Hospital, and Michele was gone. The reality of it hit him all over again, the pain of losing someone he loved more than anything else in the world. He buried his face in his hands, collapsing forward like he was that same terrified sixteen-year-old boy who learned that his whole life was a lie. Sobs wracked through him, violently shaking his whole body.

Why did it have to be Michele? Why couldn’t it have been him?

June 9th, 11:01am

Wesley was scheduled to go to therapy. After his breakdown that destroyed his previous hospital room, the staff decided they wanted to evaluate his mental health. It was his first time leaving his hospital room in three days. He’d tried to insist that he could wheel himself, but apparently it was “against hospital policy.” It felt dehumanizing, somehow, that he couldn’t even care for himself. He knew that logically it wasn’t, that there was nothing wrong with needing help, but he didn’t want help. He wanted everything to be over.

The room where he’d be having his therapy sessions wasn’t painted the same sterile, clinical, inhumane white as the rest of the hospital. It was bathed in warm tones of browns, beiges, blues... Gentle colors that he was certain were chosen because they were supposed to be soothing. His therapist was a middle-aged woman, whose smile-lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to be proof of her kindness. He was certain that many people found her understanding gaze comforting, but he only found it unnerving.

“Hello, Wesley,” she said. Her voice was like honey: warm, smooth, and impossibly sweet. It dripped over him slowly like syrup. She introduced herself as Dr. Vaughn. “Or you can call me Lauren. Whichever you prefer.” Wesley sank lower in his wheelchair. Perhaps it too would open up like the bed in his dream and swallow him whole. “How are you feeling today?”

It seemed like an innocent question, simply a socially accepted pleasantry, but Wesley knew it was more than that. “Fine,” he replied evenly, lifelessly.

Her expression didn’t falter from its kindness. “Well, that’s good,” she said conversationally. “How are you adjusting to the wheelchair?” It was not what he expected, and he was waiting for the other shoe do drop, waiting for her to ask probing questions about his emotional state. She only waited for his answer.

He shrugged.

“Yes, I can imagine that it must be difficult to deal with. Six months seems like quite a long time.

June 9th, 12:00pm

His therapy session with Dr. Vaughn was less of a therapy session and more of him avoiding questions and sitting in silence. She’d hardly seemed deterred, and had only smiled at him kindly and said, “I understand not wanting to open up to someone you don’t know. I’ll be here to listen whenever you’re ready.” She’d then gone on to tell him about herself, about her two kids and the dog that they wanted, about insignificant things about her life that he assumed were to help him feel comfortable with opening up about his life. That had ended a little before 11:30am, and they’d sat in silence for the last thirty minutes.

It had been the most uncomfortable silence of his life. Perhaps it was because he knew that something was coming, that she’d want to learn about him: about his hobbies, his family, his friends, Michele... He didn’t want to open up about any of those things. He wasn’t ready to talk about any of it. The thought of talking about Michele, of saying her name aloud and speaking as if she was gone only seemed to make it feel real. He knew it was, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t spend every moment denying it.

The nurse who had wheeled him to the therapist’s office was now waiting for him outside of her doors. He greeted Wesley with a smile. Did everyone in this hospital have the same sweet smile? How could they stand it?

“How did that go?” he asked and he pushed Wesley’s wheelchair through the hallways.

Wesley didn’t respond.

“So, what do you say I get you back to your room and then bring you some lunch?” he suggested, turning the corner and entering his room.

Oh great, more flavorless food for him to pick at for forty minutes until they took it away. Knowing that the nurse would simply keep talking until he answered, Wesley sighed, glancing back briefly over his shoulder.

“Sure...” he murmured. It was as much of an answer he could muster. He’d been less talkative as of late than he usually was, choosing to remain isolated in his own thoughts. Perhaps it was a dangerous place to be — full of self-hatred, grief, regret, and the rapidly growing desire for all of it to just stop.

The nurse smiled at him once he was situated in bed once again. “Great!” he said. “I’ll be right back with your lunch. We’ve got mashed potatoes today.”

Great. Wesley gave the man a nod of his head.

“I’ll be here...”

#tw depression #tw depressing thoughts #tw suicidal thoughts #tw drugs #tw death #tw mental health #❛❛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ sᴇᴇ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ sɪᴅᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ sʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ɪ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ — ( para )#❛❛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴛ ғᴇɴᴄᴇ — ( michele )#i would like to apologize

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